"My lor, ven men vant money in der purse,
"De do not vant de vorld to tink dem poor,
"Because, my lor, dat be von shabby curse;
"Dis all same ting wid ignourance, my lor.""Right," cry'd his lordship, in a grumbling tone, Much like a mastiff jealous of his bone.
"But first I want some technicals, signor”.
Bowing, the eunuch answer'd-“ Iss, my lor;
"I teash your lorship queekly, queekly, all,
"Dere vat be call de sostenuto note,
"Dat be ven singer open vide de troat,
"And den for long time make de squawl"Mush long, long note, dat do continue vile "A man, my lor, can valk a mile,
"My lor, der likewise beed cromatique, "As if de singer vas in greef, or sick, "And had de colick-dat be ver, ver fine: "De high, oh, dat musician call soprano; "De low voice, basso; de soff note, piano "Bravoura, queek, bold-here Marchesi shine.
"Dis Mara, too, and Billington, do know"Allegro, queek; Adagio, be de slow;
"Pomposo, dat be manner make de roar: "Maestoso, dat be grand and noble ting, "Mush like de voice of Emperor, or de king; "Or you, my lor,
"When in de house you make de grand oration, "For save, my lor, de noble Englis nation."
Thus having giv'n his lesson, and a bow,
With high complacency his lordship smil'd:
Unravell'd was his lordship's pucker'd brow,
His scouling eye, like Luna's beams, so mild:
Such is th' effect, when flatt'ries sweet cajole
That praise-admiring wight yclep'd the soul;
LORD B. AND THE EUNUCH..
And from the days of Adam 'tis the case,
That great's the sympathy twixt soul and face.
"Signor Squalini," cry'd the lord,
"The op'ra is begun, upon my word
"Allons, signor, and hear me-mind,
"As soon as ever you shail find
"A singer's voice above or under pitch,
"Just touch my toe, or give my arm a twitch."
"Iss, iss, my lor, (the eunuch straight reply'd)
"I sheet close by your lorship side;
"And den, according to your lorship wish,
"I give your lorship eibow litte! twish."
Now to the opera, music's sounds to hear,
The old castrato and the noble peer
Proceeded-Near the orchestra they sat,
Before the portals of the singers' throats!
The critic couple musing for bad notes,
With all the keenness of a hungry cat.
Now came an out-of-tunish note-
The eunuch twitch'd his lordship's coat:
Full-mouth'd at once his lordship roar'd out-
"psha!"
The orchestra, amaz'd, turn round
To find from whence arose the critic sound,
When, lo! they heard the lord, and saw!
The eunuch kept most slily twitching,
His frowning lordship all the while,
(Not in the cream of courtly style)
Be-dogging this poor singer, that be-bitching,
Uniting too, a host of damning pshas,
And reap'd a plenteous harvest of applause :
Grew from that hour a lord of tuneful skill,
And tho' the eunuch's dead, remains so still.
THE FEMALE PRATTLER.
FROM morn to night, from day to day,
At all times, and in ev'ry place,
You scold, repeat, and sing and say,
Nor are there hopes you 'll ever cease.
Forbear, my Fannia; oh, forbear,
If your own health or ours you prize;
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes.
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your fame 's by your own noise obscur'd;
All are distracted while they gaze,
But, if they listen, they are cur'd.
Your silence would acquire more praise
Than all you say, or all you write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then hush!-and be an angel quite.
S Quin and Foote, one day walk'd out
To view the country round,
In merry mood, they chatting stood
Hard by the village-pound.
Foote from his poke a shilling took,
And said, I'll bet a penny,
In a short space, within this place,
I'll make this piece a guinea.
Upon the ground, within the pound,
The shilling soon was thrown;
Behold, says Foote, the thing 's made out,
For there is one pound one.
I wonder not, says Quin, that thought
Should in your head be found,
Since that's the way, your debts you pay-
One shilling in the pound.
A COURT AUDIENCE.
OLD South, a witty churchman reckon'd,
Was preaching once to Charles the Second,
But much too serious for a court.
Who at all preaching made a sport.
He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God!
The doctor stopp'd; began to call,
Pray 'wake the earl of Lauderdale.
"My lord! why, 'tis a monstrous thing!
"You snore so loud-you 'll 'wake the king."
THUS to the master of a house,
Which, like a church, would starve a mouse;
Which never guest had entertain'd,
Nor meat nor wine its floors had stain'd,
I said, Well, sir, 'tis vastly neat;
But where d'you drink, and where d' you eat?
If one may judge, by rooms so fine,
It costs you more in mops than wine,
A CANNON ball, one bloody day,
Took a poor sailor's leg away;
And as on comrade's back he made off,
A second fairly took his head off.
The fellow, on this odd emergence,
Carries him pick-back to the surgeon's.
Zounds cries the doctor, are you drunk,
To bring me here a headless trunk?
A lying dog! cries Jack-he said
His leg was off, and not his head.
LO, to the cruel hand of fate,
My poor dear Grizzle, meek-soul'd mate,
Resigns her tuneful breath-
Tho' dropp'd her jaw, her lip tho' pale,
And blue each harmless finger nail,
She's beautiful in death.
As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep-
How wonderfully tame!
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.
Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite-
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And car'd a single fig for no man,
I thought he fear'd to meet her.
Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet Capriccio sung,
And beat in sounds the spheres!
No longer must those fingers play
Britons strike home, that many a day,
Have sooth'd my. ravish'd ears !...
Ah me! indeed I'm much inclin'd
To think I now might speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think I now with rage she 'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,
And touch her precious nose.
Here let me philosophic pause-
How wonderful are nature's laws,
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